


Beds, Bargains, and Threats

by tepidspongebath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (i guess), Humor, M/M, Prompt Fill, slight case fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:44:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4554675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidspongebath/pseuds/tepidspongebath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="https://sherlockbbc-fic.dreamwidth.org/75973.html?thread=260280773#cmt260280773">this prompt on the kink meme</a>: "without John having to bed, bargain or threaten" - Just saw this beautiful typo and now I need a fic about the times John has needed to bed, bargain or threaten for a case and one time he didn't. (And maybe one time he did all three?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bed

Sherlock didn’t say anything when John slunk back into the flat, but then he didn’t have to. It was all in the eyebrows and the wrinkling of his nose. John could feel the judgment rolling off of him in thick, palpable waves from his usual seat near the fireplace, and he hesitated in the doorway before delivering what he thought of as his official report. 

“Celia Stoper had to change her hair too, when she went to work for Rucastle,” he said to Sherlock’s carefully expressionless profile. “Though in her case, he asked her to get extensions. And she said he made her wear that electric blue jumpsuit on Wednesdays as well. It sounds sketchy to me.” 

“Sketchy, but not criminal. Possibly merely eccentric.” Sherlock almost sounded disappointed. “Then we’ll advise Violet Hunter to take precautions, but not to refuse such a lucrative job offer - I had no idea that housekeeping paid so much.” He cleared his throat delicately, and added, “I take it that wasn’t all Miss Stoper said?” 

“Well, no.” John shuffled his feet. “But the rest of it’s personal.” 

“Intimately so, I gather.” Sherlock’s eyes raked over him in a way that put John in mind of CT scans and MRIs (x-rays alone wouldn’t have done it justice). “Your shirt’s inside out, and so is your left sock.” 

John resisted the urge to check. “I don’t know what you expected. We were at a bar, and you asked me to find out all about her last job without alarming her. Of course there was flirting.” 

“I did expect you to flirt,” Sherlock huffed. “I didn’t expect you to - to _bed_ her.” 

“You could have talked to her yourself, you know.” 

“It wouldn’t have worked half as well. I’m not her type.” 

“Oh, for God’s sake!” John never knew how he managed not to hit Sherlock Holmes. It was one of life’s little mysteries, of the daily variety. “You got what you wanted, I got what _I_ wanted, Violet’s going to get the information she came to you for, and Celia’s happy too. I’d call that a happy ending all around.” 

Sherlock sighed gustily. “At least you had the good sense to use a condom.”

In the interest of keeping the peace, John pretended not to hear that. “And I’m seeing her again on Saturday,” he said, turning on his heel to march on upstairs.

 His shirt, he found when he undressed for the night, was indeed inside out. 


	2. Bargain

“I know where she is,” said a small, piping voice.

John’s ears pricked up. He and Sherlock had been enlisted by anxious parents to find out about their teenaged daughter’s inappropriate boyfriend, and Sherlock had been singularly uninterested until he unearthed the fact that, in addition to his graying hair, the said boyfriend was inappropriate because he’d fallen into the habit of murdering young ladies. As the current young lady had been missing since this morning, John was at her family’s flat trying to figure out where she could have disappeared to. That small, piping voice - it belonged to the girl’s younger sister, he thought - was the first viable clue he’d come across.

He knelt down to the level of the child’s small face. “Do you now?” he said, doing his best to appear friendly and approachable.

“Yes. I heard Kathy talking on the phone, and she saw me, and she asked me not to tell Mum.”

“Could you tell _me_ , then?”

The child shook her brown curls furiously. “Nuh-uh. Kathy gave me ice cream if I promised not to tell _anyone_ , and she promised to get me strawberry if I still hadn’t told when she came back. That’s my favorite.”

The problem there was that Kathy might not make it back to fulfill her bargain, but John could hardly tell her sister that. “I could ask your parents to get you strawberry ice cream if you tell me.”

“Nah, they wouldn’t like that. Dad’s _allergic_.”

“I see. Well, is there anything else that could get you to tell me?”

“We could play riddles,” she said. “I like riddles.”

“I don’t have time for--!” John stopped himself before he inadvertently taught the child a bad word, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Okay. What have I got in my pocket, then?”

“That’s not a riddle!”

“No it’s not, is it? But I do have these, see?” John produced a half-empty Fisherman’s Friend packet.

The child screwed up her face. “Yuck.”

“Yeah, I thought so. Hang on a minute.”

It was a pity Sherlock was busy harassing the inappropriately murderous boyfriend’s workmates on the other side of town. The pockets of his Belstaff were vast, and filled with all sorts of things that might fascinate a small child. John wouldn’t have been surprised if the man had a live puppy in there for emergencies such as this. But Sherlock was _not_ here (“You deal with the family, John, you’re better at that”), and he had to make do with the meager contents of his own pockets.

He produced his phone, an oyster card, tickets to the cinema from his last failed date with Celia Stoper, string, toffee wrappers, a Tesco receipt, more string, a pen, a couple of band-aids, and a grocery list he’d forgotten about - all of which were deemed to be inappropriate bargaining chips.

However, the child looked meaningfully at him when he finally took out his wallet. “I’d tell for a hundred pounds.”

John nearly dropped his wallet in surprise. “You’re, what, five years old? What on earth do _you_ need a hundred quid for?”

“Oh, loads of stuff,” said the girl. John could almost see her doing sums behind those huge brown eyes - that would be a veritable shitload of strawberry ice cream, pardon his French. “Fifty?” she hazarded, when she saw that John wasn’t about to give in.

“Ten,” said John firmly.

“Ten’s not much.”

“Ten’s _plenty_.”

“Thirty’s more.”

“Look, I’ve got” - John counted out his notes and a few coins - “Twenty-six pounds. Will that do you?”

“Okay.” The girl held out her small hand, and John dutifully counted the money into it, helping her with her sums to show that he wasn’t cheating.

“Kathy’s going to the National Portrait Gallery,” she said promptly once they had everything added up. “I remember ‘cause Mum took me and my cousin Caroline last month, ‘cause Caroline needed to go for school and Aunt Ellie couldn’t take her. And Kathy’s going at 5 o’clock. That’s an hour before closing.”

“ _Thank you,_ ” said John feelingly. He fumbled for his phone, which, as luck would have it, he’d put in the wrong pocket. “Sherlock, she’s going to meet him at the National Portrait Gallery in half an hour. I’ll see you there. And if I don’t have enough cash for the taxi,” he called over his shoulder as he sprinted out of the flat, “it’ll be your fault!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am incapable of _not_ slipping in Hobbit references. _Incapable_ , I tell you. Give me the slightest, flimsiest excuse, and I won't be able to stop myself.


	3. Threats

The thing about John Watson was that he was, at face value, a largely unassuming man. You wouldn’t remember him if you saw him at Tesco’s - unless, of course, he happened to be shouting abuse at one of the chip and pin machines. If asked to describe him, the casual observer would say he was average or ordinary or harmless. The word ‘bumbling’ also managed to sneak in. People meeting him for the first time were often surprised, or even shocked, to learn he’d been in the military (Sherlock rather sneered when this happened).

Then again, those were the people he met socially. The ones he met in dark alleys and abandoned buildings and the back rooms of shady clubs were usually prepared to swear that he was the devil incarnate, especially if they happened to have spent the first few seconds of their acquaintance brandishing weapons at him.

This was because John Watson, as a rule, did not threaten people. Oh, he warned them not to try certain things. And he asked them, more or less politely, to put down the knife or gun or, on one memorable occasion, battle axe, and to please stop before they did something they might regret. But more often than not, he found that it was much simpler and much more effective to _act_. It saved time, and lives too. He left the threatening to Sherlock, who was better at it, and to Lestrade, who had the clout of New Scotland Yard behind him.

Now, however, he was making an exception.

It was bad enough that Violet Hunter had gone missing after leaving a message that basically boiled down to “Help me, Sherlock Holmes, you’re my only hope”. It was worse that Sherlock had discovered that Jethro Rucastle had a pressing need to show that a young lady with copper-colored hair was still living with him and his new wife (for money, of course; Sherlock didn’t bother to disguise how deadly dull he thought that was). But the icing on this layer cake of terrible things was that Sherlock had gone haring after Violet without waiting for John to come home from Celia Stoper telling him that it had been nice but maybe they should stop seeing each other, thanks, and now Sherlock was missing too.

Normally, this wouldn’t have been cause for alarm, as Sherlock was capable of disappearing acts that most magicians would give their left legs to perform. He could vanish quite suddenly in the middle of a case only to reappear a day later in Newcastle with the murderer, an impeccable line of reasoning that invariably led to a rock-solid court case, any socks that had gone missing from the dryer last week, and the Holy Grail.

But he did not, as a rule, do that after sending a text asking John to meet him at the suspect’s house with his gun.

And so John, trying not to think of exactly how much trouble he’d be in when Lestrade finally noticed the 17 unanswered calls on his phone, had forced his way into the rather nice house and was holding Rucastle at gunpoint. He was also shouting, mostly to be heard over Rucastle’s frantic bawling - he was screaming numbers at John, likely the code to his safe.

“No, no, I don’t care - I DON’T BLOODY CARE ABOUT YOUR MONEY!” John kicked an ottoman for emphasis, and Rucastle fell silent and fell over backwards with a mighty thump. “But if you’ve hurt him - if you’ve hurt either of them,” he continued, his voice low and dangerous, “I swear to God I’ll--”

“I’ve n-never hurt anybody in my life,” gibbered the man on the floor. “Never, I promise!”

“I find that hard to believe, coming from a man who’s covering up his own daughter’s death.” John moved his arm fractionally so that the Browning was aimed at Rucastle’s kneecap.

“What? No, Alice isn’t dead!”

“Then why the lookalike housekeepers? You make them wear her clothes!”

“It’s for her mum!” Rucastle threw up a hand imploringly. “Alice came to live with me and the missus, didn’t she, after that blazing row she had with her mum over her being a lesbian and all, and her mum, well, she’s a bit uptight but she loves Alice, she really does, so she sends money every month, and all she wants in return is proof that Alice is okay. Only Alice won’t have anything to do with her mum, see - blocked her on Twitter and everything - so I’ve been sending pictures in secret of Alice doing things around the house, with that hair of hers always in her face, and after the accident...I needed the money more than ever, didn’t I? ”

“And her mum didn’t notice?” John was incredulous. Yes, their build and coloring and freckles were practically identical, but Celia Stoper was five years older than Violet if she was a day, and Rucastle’s daughter was a _teenager_.

Rucastle shrugged as best he could with his feet in the air and his shoulders on the carpet. “I’ve always been rubbish with photos. Her mum used to give me hell back when cameras still used film.”

He bared his teeth in a grin that was clearly meant to be sheepish and ingratiating, but failed to be anything other than slimy and obsequious. John wasn’t impressed.

“So you’ve been fobbing her off with bad pictures of other people. Jesus.” John shook his head in disgust, then hefted his gun meaningfully when Rucastle made to get up. “No, you stay where you are. I’ve got two questions for you now, and I better like what I’m going to hear. One: where is Alice?”

“Cornwall, a private facility!” he yelped. “Nice place, bloody expensive, excellent doctors, good food - she’s still having trouble walking, see - most of the money goes to pay for that.”

“And the rest pays for this place and your wife’s wardrobe, as long as you keep her mother in the dark. You’re nearly a saint,” spat John. “Question number two, Mister Ruscastle: what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?”

“ _Who_?”

John swore. “Violet Hunter then, where is she?”

“The basement - the missus caught her snooping through Alice’s stuff - couldn’t have that - so we locked them in while they were snooping, her and that tall bloke in the big coat. Just locked them in, honest - never touched a hair on their heads!”

“No, and I bet you were going to ask them to tea when your wife got back from the dentist’s. Right. _Right_.” John nudged Rucastle roughly with the side of his foot. “Get up. You’re coming with me, and we’re going to unlock the basement. And before you get any funny ideas” - he cringed inwardly at how he sounded like the sort of villainous cinematic goon who was due to be fatally outwitted by the hero in the next scene, but it couldn’t be helped - “the police should be here any minute now, and they’re going to be on _my_ side.”

That was broadly true, even if Lestrade had a few sharp words for John about breaking into houses and threatening homeowners with illegal firearms that he had to pretend not to know about. But he did let John and Sherlock go home with the bare minimum of fuss, once Violet was safely wrapped in a shock blanket and giving her statement, so that was all right.

 


	4. None At All

“That was easy. That was surprisingly easy.”

Sherlock ducked his head in what may have been a nod, and made a sound that may or may not have signified assent.

“I mean, you have fans,” John went on, hurrying to keep up with him. “My blog has fans, but they’re basically _your_ fans. They’d stop caring if I started blogging about anything else. But _me_ \--”

“You have your fair share of admirers, Doctor Watson,” said Sherlock dryly, thumbs twirling as he scanned the images on his phone. “At least this one was useful.”

“And all we had to do was ask.” John was still bemused. The middle-aged bank manager had all but fallen over himself to give them what they needed once he realized he was talking to _the_ John Watson, who ran that fantastic blog. There had been no need to coax, cajole, frighten, or even flirt: they had simply received a month’s worth of CCTV footage, viewings of documents that ought to have been confidential, employee records, and more information about the running of a small rural bank than John cared to think about.

True, he’d had to field some questions about the aluminium crutch and which Bond film was his favorite, but that could hardly be considered difficult. It had actually been quite nice to unironically talk about the relative merits of _From Russia With Love_ and _Tomorrow Never Dies,_ even with Sherlock making impatient noises while he photographed documents in the background.

“That was all _you_ had to do. My function was merely ornamental.”

“You could have done a worse job of it. Though he might have paid attention to you if you’d worn the hat.” John smiled reassuringly at Sherlock, who had spent most of the interview glowering next to the potted palm. Then he had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing at the look on his flatmate’s face. “Don’t tell me you’re disappointed that you didn’t have to bring up his gambling debts. You said yourself they didn’t really amount to much.”

“I can see how Spangler did it now,” he said, electing to ignore John’s raised eyebrows. “Simple and elegant, like the best cons always are. We’ll need to catch him in the act if there’s to be any chance of holding him, and he’s the clever sort who knows to quit while he’s ahead. He’ll probably hit one more bank in the next few days, and we have to be there. That should be good for your blog. Give your fan something to look forward to, eh?”

“Oh, stop it.”

“Eventually.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked upwards in a half-grin. “Now, we need a map of the local tourist spots. Think you can charm the people at the B and B into giving us one of those?”

 


	5. All Three

“What will it take,” said John, “what _exactly_ will it take to make you stop doing that?”

“Doing what?” Sherlock blinked. He would have been the very picture of innocence if his face hadn’t been streaked with soot. The edges of the Belstaff were smoking faintly too, and he smelled like he’d just crawled out of an incinerator, which was more or less precisely what he’d done.

“Conspiring at your own destruction.”

“That’s a very dramatic way of putting it.”

“And diving into an incinerator after a swatch of blue serge and a fake mustache is a very dramatic way of solving a case, do you see what I mean?”

“But I _did_ solve it.” Sherlock had shed his coat and was now sniffing at his singed jacket cuffs. “Spangler will never swindle another victim - at least for the duration of his jail sentence - and I got out of there before they turned it on.”

“You mean before they turned it _up_.” John sighed. “Look, Sherlock, I know it’s the way you are, and God knows I’ll follow you into any deathtrap you walk into, but could you - oh, I don’t know - _try_ to exercise a reasonable amount of caution?”

“‘Reasonable’ is relative.” There was a rustle of cloth as Sherlock divested himself of his jacket and examined the front of his shirt. It was quite ruined, not so much from what the incinerator did as from what it contained. “We could,” he said, “work out a scoring system for risks and correlate it to the one for cases.”

John considered this and immediately saw a million and one ways in which it could go wrong. “I don’t think so. I can just see you putting yourself in Level 10 danger for a missing Christmas stocking if you think it’s interesting enough.”

“I suppose,” said Sherlock absently.

John looked over to see what was distracting him, and saw that Sherlock was now naked to the waist, considering his shirt as one does when trying to decide whether to chuck something in the bin or swab it for interesting microbes. This wasn’t an unusual sight in the living room of 221B: Sherlock had the same approach to nudity as, say, your average Greek philosopher in that it didn’t matter if he had more important things on his mind, which was always, and rinsing off soap suds was optional if ideas occurred to him in the bath. The little flip John’s stomach gave at the sight wasn’t new either, but he was acknowledging it now, and as something more than the urge to remind his flatmate to put a sheet on, thank you very much.

The simple truth was that it had been quite a few months since Celia Stoper, or any other woman for that matter. And for a few months less than that, well, there hadn’t been anyone but Sherlock. John was still getting used to it, and it was rather a marvelous thing to get used to.

He felt his expression soften in spite of himself.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to tie it to the severity of the crime?” he said on his way to the kitchen.

Sherlock gave a derisive snort. “You know as well as I do that even a petty forger can become a holy terror when cornered. Look at Spangler.”

“He tried to hit you over the head with a book of stamps!”

“While I was climbing out of that incinerator. Do you see what _I_ mean?”

“I guess I do.” John paused his tea-making activities long enough to hand Sherlock a freezer bag for his shirt. “Though I don’t think I see why you’re... _bargaining_...with me on this one. You’re not usually one to quibble - at least not about casework.”

“I could be holding out for a little...something in return.”

John’s ears pricked up and turned red, and the teabag he was holding landed outside the mug he was aiming for. There were some things you just couldn’t miss, especially if they were uttered by a half-naked Sherlock, even if he was currently occupied with finding space for his soiled shirt in the fridge.

“If you’re expecting some sort of reward system,” he began, skirting the kitchen table to crowd Sherlock against the fridge door. “Or to - to get shagged for not endangering life and limb--”

“Yes?” Sherlock, damn the man, looked entirely too smug for words. In another time, John would have been tempted to punch that smirk off of his face. Now, however...

“You idiot,” he said, laying one hand on the side of Sherlock’s dark-streaked face. “You know you just have to ask.”

And then, because it was the most natural thing in the world, and it would never, _never_ cease to amaze him that it _was_ the most natural thing in the world, he leaned in and kissed Sherlock Holmes. It was sweet and soft and sooty and perfect, in spite of the soot - or maybe because of it. At any rate, John knew, as Sherlock twisted his fingers in the cloth of his shirt, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“All right,” he said, pulling away to wipe at a dark smudge on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “You clean up. And then bed. There are some very bad things I’d like to do to you.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock’s voice was a pleased rumble. “Is that a threat?”

John grinned. “Oh, it’s a promise.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's not just Hobbit references that I can't resist. Violet Hunter, Miss Stoper, and the Rucastles are from _The Adventure of the Copper Beeches_ , and the conman Spangler, well, he was hanged at the start of Terry Pratchett's _Going Postal_ , wasn't he? 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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